Count Down the Night
by Violetvixen17
Summary: John receives a terminal diagnosis that forces the two men to face their feelings about each other.
1. Drowning Heart

_**Summary: John gets a terminal diagnosis that forces the two men to face their feelings about mortality and love.**_

_Warning: This fic deals with death and loss. _

AU: This takes place in a verse where Sherlock returned from the dead and resumed his life as before. Mary is not a part of this canon, not that I don't absolutely adore her on the show, but this was started before I saw S3:E1.

Sherlock hates that he didn't deduce it first.

It starts on a case one night, the suspect darting through the dark back alleys of London, Sherlock gave chase fully expecting to hear the sound of John at his heels and he does. But the sound fades quickly, too fast. Sherlock assumed John went another way, perhaps to pen in the fleeing man. He knew this was one of John's favorite things about their work, the thrill of the chases, the adrenaline of the run, the pursuit. But after he'd lost sight of the crook a few streets later, Sherlock turned to see that he was alone in the alley.

He found John two streets back, panting against a brick wall, his face more flushed than usual. He'd chided him then, _chided_ his friend for being out of shape. He hadn't thought to wonder why his friend suddenly couldn't run a few blocks without losing his breath. It isn't until it happens again, and then again that Sherlock logs it as a possible cause for concern.

A few months later John faints without cause.

Sherlock heard a noise in the kitchen and sighed, setting his violin down. He'd breezed into the room with a sarcastic remark about how an army doctor could be so squeamish about something such as a pigs' brain in the fridge. Sherlock stumbles over something and looks down. He freezes as he sees it is John's arm. Around the corner Sherlock finds the rest of his flat mate, out cold on their kitchen floor. For a moment his ever racing mind is horrifyingly silent, not sure what to do. John is always the one to tell him what to do with things like this, but John is the one lying there, still. Sherlock snaps himself back as John comes to with a groan and rolls over to rub his shoulder.

"What happened?"

"You chose to nap on the floor."

"Nap? Floor?" John squints at him as he sits up.

Sherlock crouches and brings his face level with John's to stare at him quizzically. "Are you ill?"

John shoves Sherlock backward gently. "No…I just got a bit dizzy that's all."

"Dizzy? Correction, you fainted. On our floor."

Sherlock helps John stand and continues to stare at him, looking for any whit of difference that might explain the incident. John allows it for a moment then sighs at him and rolls his eyes. "Come off it, I'm fine. Was probably a whiff of one of your mold culture's that did me in. Haven't I warned you about that gunk?"

Sherlock scoffs and returns to his violin, but throughout the evening he mentally catalogues the incident to the room in his mind palace where he keeps John's information. He is disturbed to find that it doesn't fit into any of the existing spaces in that room and he creates a new file.

&*)(*)(&&)&*

"This wasn't how it was supposed to happen, John."

"I know."

"It was supposed to be me, it was always supposed to be me that something happened to."

"Well best laid plans I suppose." He tried to smirk, but Sherlock did not miss the fact that John's mouth failed to pull up more than a fraction of it's usual.

"You were the one who was supposed to grieve then move on to a better life, a wife perhaps, children?"

"A white picket fence and a dog as well I suppose?"

Sherlock chuckled slightly at the sarcasm in John's tone, but laughing felt wrong in this moment. Any other human would have been devastated, a sniveling mess upon the floor upon learning that their closest friend was about to die.

"It's okay, Sherlock."

"No, it's not!" Sherlock suddenly roared, jumping away from the hospital bed and moving to pace by the window. His subconscious echoed back a scene where John had screamed the same phrase at him, back in Baskerville. Sherlock felt a seizing in his chest as he remembered that it had been because of him, God _he'd experimented_ on him then… he'd had no idea what he'd been toying with. Now he wanted that moment back so badly it burned him inside. He wanted to go back there…back to before he'd faked his death and lost two precious years he could have spent with his friend…back to before Moriarty and his ridiculous games….back to before they'd sat in this stupid white room and listened to a doctor calmly relay the news that John had managed to inherit the same heart disease that killed both his father and other members in his family.

_Familial dialated cardiomyopathy_….the words still hung in the air and as Sherlock breathed deeply in and out he could almost feel the words tattooing themselves across the inside of his lungs. Each letter burned until the words swam in his head like a chant, robbing him of his normal logic. He tried to remember the rest of it but only snippets came back to him: _enlarged chambers, 1-5 year mortality rate …less in cases that progress quickly like yours I'm afraid. Less_. Sherlock turned to the window, his fingers gripping the sill until his knuckles went white. He hated that word.

"Sherlock?" John's voice sounded broken and hollow.

"What?"

"I….." John started, stopped, and tried to start once more but no sound came out. Finally he let out a soft rush of breath that made Sherlock glance over his shoulder.

"John."

"It's nothing. Let's go home."

"But they said…."

"I don't' care. I just want to go home for now." John already had retrieved his shirt and jacket and donned them. Sherlock didn't know if he should argue. Normally he would have been all for telling the hospital doctors to shove off, but now….now he worried.

"Are you coming or not?" John paused at the door, Sherlock did not miss the trembling of his friend's hand on the handle.

"Coming, of course."

&*(&*(&)&*

Sherlock has taken to watching him sleep. He watches the shallow rise and fall of his friend's chest under the covers. Some nights he sits in the chair in the corner, knees pulled up against his chest, and counts every breath. _551, 552,…._He wonders how many are left, but that thought makes his chest tighten painfully and a lump form in his throat that threatens to choke him. Sherlock hears his own voice in his head from years ago, when he'd first met John.

"Ugh, breathing. Breathing is boring."

_ 675, 676, 677…. _

Breathing is no longer boring to Sherlock. It is suddenly the most important thing. Something he analyzes, the most desperate measure of a life. One that he is clinging to for fear of what will happen if he let's go.

^&^&*(&(*^&*^(

John doesn't tell anyone for over a month, in fact he barely mentions it at all. Sherlock wonders if that's for the best or the worst. Sherlock knows why John doesn't want to tell. He knows that Harry will be devastated, that Molly will cry, and Mrs. Hudson will fuss. He knows also that Mycroft would offer up expensive hospitals, and doctors care if he so much as breathed a request, but Sherlock follows John's lead and says nothing as well.

Then one rainy night John has a nightmare. Sherlock freezes in his chair as John thrashes in the bed. He has seen the terrors before, heard them through the walls many nights in the past. But it is different now. Sherlock knows he should leave before John wakes up to find him in his room. But he is scared, worried now about the exertion taking its toll on an already fragile heart.

"No! Don't!" John pants, his face twisted in a mask of pain, his breathing rapid and fast. Too damn fast. Sherlock loses count. "Stop! Don't!" John's voice gains strength and the last word is nearly a scream, his back arching in the bed. Sherlock is torn between wanting to climb on the bed and snatch his friend from whatever dreamed foe hurts him, or run from the room and play his violin until the sounds are cleansed from his ears.

He doesn't choose either, instead simply sitting paralyzed until the dream ends and John's breathing slowly evens out. Sherlock is able to count again and he closes his eyes and focuses on that, trying to still his mind which now feels like an earthquake has shaken the foundations of his palace. He envisions a room full of paper like a snowstorm and meditates on reorganizing it as much as possible.

He nearly jumps when he hears John speak.

"How long?"

Sherlock opens his eyes to see that John has turned on his side to face him, his features still tired but awake.

"What?"

"How long have you been watching me?" John's eyes are lit only by the moonlight that comes in his window. The bluish light turns his skin pale and Sherlock shivers slightly at the sight.

"I…I couldn't sleep….so I.." He babbles as lies he meant to tell to explain his presence elude him. His palace is still in too much disarray to find anything quickly.

"I don't mind. I just wondered how long." John says with a yawn.

"17 days ago."

"Why?"

"You know why." Sherlock twists uncomfortably in the chair under John's scrutiny. They've never named this thing between them, the connection that he felt the first day when John had limped into Molly's morgue. It has been the undercurrent beneath everything since, and Sherlock wonders suddenly if he will be able to survive the silence without it.

John's dark blue eyes bore into him as he replies. "The same reason I sat at your grave for weeks after you fell."

Sherlock feels his heart kick him violently in the ribs and wonders if heart diseases are contagious. He has tried to delete the fall and most of the two following years from his mind bank, but it still pains him to know how much he left John hurting. He wonders if this is fate paying him back for that, now he will be the one left behind to mourn.

"You never told me why you did that." Sherlock murmurs.

"You didn't ask."

They are both silent for a moment, the weight of the moment hanging heavily between them. There is so much that they don't say, have never said and every moment that passes now adds to that weight until it threatens to suffocate them both.

"Tell me now?"

John doesn't speak for a moment but instead moves himself on the bed back a foot and lifts the quilt in invitation. Sherlock doesn't move for a second and John stares him down, silently telling him that it is time. No more running from this, no more denying, they'd always assumed they'd have time for this, to figure it all out…but now that time is running out.

Sherlock unfolds himself from his chair and gently slides under the blanket beside his friend, staring across the pillows into eyes so dark blue that he wonders if their color even has a name in the spectrum. They lay side by side without touching, Sherlock finds himself wanting to but unable to move. He has never indulged in the normal human need for physical contact, but suddenly all those years denying it slam to the surface and now he _wants_ it. He wants to reach across those few inches that seem like miles and lay his hand over John's heart, that damn fragile organ that now threatens everything.

He wants to say so many things, but his mind palace is still in disarray and he struggles to name the ache in his chest.

They are both silent for several long minutes, John closes his eyes once more and Sherlock tries to relax. He thinks perhaps John is too tired to have this conversation now and he refuses to push it, especially since the lump in his throat keeps him from asking the question again. But just as Sherlock begins to count once more, John's murmurs his answer.

"I didn't want you to be alone."

Molly is the first one to find out.

She finds Sherlock in her lab one afternoon, he's left John for the first time in days, and only because John had agreed to visit his sister. Harry and Clara had mended their marriage the year before and had begged John and Sherlock to visit now so they could share their 'big' news. Sherlock politely declined, knowing exactly what that 'news' was, having already deduced it. Harry was pregnant. John had mentioned that his sister and her wife had talked about children since their reconciliation, and what other news could possibly have Harry reaching out for strained family connections. Sherlock had let him go, knowing that John wouldn't be telling Harry or Clara about his diagnosis today. No, John was far too much the dutiful brother to dampen their happiness.

Sherlock has made something of a mess in Molly's lab, but not his usual style. The microscopes sit dark, and no beakers or trays of anatomy are spread over her counters. Instead she finds him slumped over a counter of medical textbooks. His jacket isn't hung on the peg but dumped over a stool and his normally neat appearance is slightly off. His plum colored shirt is slightly wrinkled and the buttons of his suit jacket are undone, his curls slightly more ruffled than normal. Molly notices these things that no one else would, and Sherlock has forgotten that she is the exception to his rules.

Molly says nothing, instead letting her eyes roam over the books that Sherlock has strewn about, all open to different sections. She spies a graphic of a heart, and on another vaguely sees a case study on symptoms, progression, then a word catches her eye and her breath hitches. The word has been highlighted and screams off the page in a halo of yellow …**terminal**.

Molly freezes and the pieces click into place.

"Go ahead and ask, Molly." Sherlock sighs, despite the fact that she hasn't spoken a word since entering the room.

"You or him?" Her voice is soft, but there is steel beneath. He has always loved that about Molly, she is a study in contradictions. Like John, there was so much more beneath the plain exterior.

"Him." Sherlock says quickly, before the lump in his throat returns to rob him of words. He scans the texts, and the pages of copius notes he has scratched out. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, knowing he should look at Molly to see her reaction, comfort her, but he can't. The sadness of this has already taken over all the space in his chest and he's afraid he won't be able to handle the burden of anyone elses'.

Molly says nothing, merely pulls up a stool to sit beside him and pulls one of the textbooks onto her lap to read the passage he was studying. He is thankful that she hasn't pressed him with questions. He feels a small pang of guilt for relaying bad news that wasn't really his to tell, but also relief. At least now someone knows besides himself, and Molly has proven herself to be a trustworthy keeper of his secrets.

He risks a sideways glance at her after a few quiet moments, and sees as she reads the words that are now haunting him night and day. Her eyes are shining as they take it all in.

_Terminal, progressive, failure, death_.

A tear wets the page.

"Oh John," Molly's whisper is reverent and broken.

Hearing her say his name severs something inside of Sherlock and he leans his head down upon the pile of books, closing his eyes and scrambling for something, anything to hold back the tidal wave inside.

Molly's gentle touch on the back of his hand is the only thing keeping him from flying apart. Her next words are the same words she spoke the night before he'd flirted with death, the same death that now comes for John.

"What do you need?"

This time he has no answer.

%%%%%^&^%

"The baby's due in May." John greets Sherlock with tea that evening when he returns, chatting on about how he's never seen his sister so contented. Sherlock listens halfheartedly, hearing the unspoken words beneath the chatter.

John is happy for them but concerned, Harry's only been in recovery for a year, he hopes the stress of being a mother won't push her back to the bottle. He is hopeful, but melancholy. John enjoys children and he won't be around to meet his niece or nephew that won't arrive until Spring. All of this is the unspoken theme underneath all of his prattling about how they showed him their plans for a nursery and spoke of possible names.

Sherlock accepts a cup of tea that John places in front of him, willing his hands not to shake as he sips it. John finally stops his talk and sits down on the sofa at his side. The rain that threatened all day now begins to patter against the windows and the flat feels quite homey in comparison. John had gotten a fire going and Sherlock toes off his shoes. He wonders how many evenings like this are left, and tries to memorize every nuance of the feeling that he now defines in one word, home.

"It's okay that you told her, Sherlock." John says quietly after a time.

Sherlock's hands do shake as he sets the cup back in its saucer, rattling the china.

"She…I didn't mean…"

"I said it's fine." John leans his head back against the sofa back, eyes closed. "You're going to need her help later on. It's best she be aware."

"What help could she be? She's not a cardiologist." Sherlock murmurs, keeping his gaze trained on the fireplace.

"For you, not me." John sighs, lolling his head to the side to stare at him, so many unspoken words glittering in the depths of his tired eyes. Sherlock finds himself unable to look away.

"But I…" the words clog his throat.

"Yes, I'm aware that you've probably memorized every studied case of this by now. There's no doubt to your brilliance Sherlock, but you can't stop this. Some things just _are_. And when the time comes, you'll need someone to be here."

"John, there's no way to know how long, or if it is sure to be…" Sherlock can't bring himself to say the last word, _terminal_. It is too finite.

"I just called you brilliant didn't I?" John's mouth tightens.

Sherlock is unable to do anything but nod.

"Then don't pretend you don't know it's already begun."

_)_)++))+)

Greg and Mycroft have opposite reactions, despite the fact that they tell them together. John doesn't want to have to go through this too many times, so they invite the two men to the flat one afternoon for tea. Mrs. Hudson gladly provides cookies and even some small cakes that Sherlock has told her Mycroft secretly adores. For once he won't pick on his brother's fondness for anything sugared.

Mycroft arrives and folds his long suited limbs into one of the armchairs, twirling his ever present umbrella. His eyes are drawn to the dessert tray on the coffee table, as he notices the cakes he immediately snaps his eyes toward his brother. Sherlock stands awkwardly in the doorway of the kitchen and silently nods toward the dessert tray. No biting remarks, no sarcasm. And in this he tells his brother without words, as has always been their way with difficult news. Mycroft draws in a long breath and holds it for a moment, his gaze flickering toward John and Greg on the sofa, lost in silly small talk. When Mycroft's gaze returns to him Sherlock can see that he knows and all he offers is a slight nod in confirmation, he can't manage more than that.

John catches the silent exchange out of the corner of his eyes, and quickly moves his conversation with Greg to the news at hand, letting the explanation fall out of him quickly in an attempt to get it over with. He watches as Greg's face goes from disbelief to shock, to surprisingly anger. The D.I, jumps up to pace the room, his hands raking silver hair into a frightful mess. He babbles to no one in particular about how this whole mess is a load of "bloody fucking shite" and he demands to know what idiot doctor they've been talking to because there is no way in hell that in this day and age something like this should be happening. Sherlock envies Lestrade a little for the ease at which he displays his emotion. He thinks he rather prefers the dramatics, curses, and shouting to the silence.

John sags against the sofa arm as he watches Greg's outburst, and Sherlock immediately moves to his side, seeing the fact that the scene is draining his flat mate. John tires more and more easily as days pass and he sits beside him gently, offering nothing more than a stable place to lean if he needs it.

They let Greg's rage have an audience for a few moments as he voices so many thoughts that have been unspoken. He personifies the unfairness of it all, and Sherlock is glad at least someone is able to give that a voice.

Mycroft however does not speak a word.

Greg's outburst is bright but short lived and soon after he excuses himself from their company, promising to return once he calms down. Mycroft follows, pausing at the door to retrieve his coat and saying the only words he will speak during his visit.

"I am sorry."

Later Sherlock will feign ignorance when he sees Greg leaning against Mycroft at the funeral, pretending that he did not stand at the window that afternoon at their flat. Pretending that he did not happen to look down and see Greg's raging exterior crack as his shoes hit the pavement. Sherlock tries but cannot forget that when Greg breaks down, it is into the expensive front of Mycroft's jacket.

&*(&()*&)(&(*&(&

John decides not tell the rest of them at all. They will find out in the end. Sherlock wonders if this is really for the best, as he knows that John is tired of explaining, and that Lestrade will most likely convey the news to his team in time anyway. Sherlock is also glad of John's decision for a selfish reason. He doesn't want to share their time with the others, despite the fact that he knows he should. He should encourage John to tell his parents, his friends; Mike, Sarah, well perhaps not Sally or Anderson. John had never quite forgiven them, even after Sherlock's return. But Sherlock has never been good at sharing and that is certainly true now as he watches John fade a little more each day.

John no longer allows Sherlock to occupy the chair in his bedroom at night, instead insisting on sharing the bed. His reasoning: "If you're going to stare at me all night, you might as well be comfortable doing it."

Sherlock doesn't argue.

But he still counts at night.

^&*^*&(*&^*^(*^&

John has another nightmare a few weeks later, but this time when he thrashes Sherlock hears him struggling to breathe and panics. He abandons his count and goes against all his knowledge about not waking a sleeping night terror. He grabs John and pulls his flailing body back against his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. John thrashes and Sherlock shivers as he hears the shallow raspy breaths.

"Stop this…John _please_." Sherlock hears a voice that he barely recognizes as his own pleading against John's ear. "You _must stop_."

After a few agonizing moments, John sags in his hold and begins to take deeper breaths as he whimpers and begins to wake. Sherlock loosens his hold but does not let go.

"Sherlock?" John's voice is laden with sleep and his breathing still slightly uneven.

"Yes." Sherlock's long fingers splay over John's chest, feeling the stuttering heart beat beneath. He focuses on that, counting beats instead of breath.

"Was it lonely?" John's question is groggy and Sherlock is unsure if he's even completely conscious but answers anyway.

"When?"

"When you were dead." John murmurs, bringing his hand up to cover Sherlock's where it still lies against his chest.

The memory of those two years he spent away still burn when he revisits them. He has tried many a time to delete that horrible exile, but has never been able to completely cleanse his mind.

"Yes."

"What did you miss?" John's fingers flex against his own, curling slightly to hold on.

Sherlock knows that John needs to hear this now or he wouldn't be asking. John disliked talking about that time almost as much as Sherlock does, but it seems important now for him to know.

"At first I missed London, the noise, the work, even the cabs." Sherlock remembers those first few months that he spent in a small town near the Alps in France. The mountains were beautiful, the scenery pristine but it was too quiet and too pure for him after losing the gritty gray city he'd called home for so long.

"And then?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Honestly like this has never been his strong suit, but for John he will try. "Then it was the people…not many of course. I found myself in a morgue in Rome one afternoon, helping with a local case, and I thought of Molly. Another month it was Lestrade's face that haunted me when a gray haired man in a trench coat bumped me on the subway in New York. And many an afternoon I did get a craving for Mrs. Hudson's Battenberg cake."

John chuckles softly, the sound comforting and warm bubbles through him. Sherlock smiles gently as he leans his forehead against the back of John's head, inhaling his scent as deeply as he can manage.

"Was that all?" John asks, his voice so soft it can barely be heard.

This is it. Sherlock knows what John is really asking. He'd be daft not to know.

_Did you miss me? Will you miss me when I am gone?_

A thread holding him together inside snaps, and another….and another until he feels like he is drifting, with John his only anchor and he turns his hand over beneath John's to entwine their fingers. If this is how it has to happen, then he will let go and finally let it happen.

"Above and beyond any form of measure." Sherlock groped for more words, wishing for once that his voice had the gift of lyrical prose.

He feels John's breathing hitch and his shoulder shake slightly, and Sherlock is now suddenly worried that he has said too much, even by saying so little. He feels John's hold tighten nearly to the point of pain.

"Why didn't we say these things before? When we had more _goddamn time_?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. He is breaking. His mind palace quakes dangerously, the earth below it threatening to swallow the whole damn building. His eyes are burning now, as he tries to hold back the first honest tears he has cried in a long time. All the others were manufacture, but these…not these.

"I tried to tell you at your grave Sherlock, god help me I tried." John breaks their hand hold to twist in the cage of Sherlock's arms. He moves until he can duck his sandy hair down and rest his forehead against Sherlock's chest. The pale man can feel the heat of John's breaths searing him through the thin fabric of his shirt, each puff of hot air melting him further. All that ice that he's hidden his heart behind, John has always seen through it, and now he is melting all of it down to nothing. Sherlock feels exposed and vulnerable, something he would only ever allow John to see.

"I heard you John. I was there."

John's arm moves to twine around his ribs, holding them together like a tether. Sherlock thinks he may be able to piece himself back together as long John doesn't let go.

"I tried, but I couldn't say it then, you were dead. I thought I'd lost my last chance Sherlock. I saw you jump from that goddamn roof, and I stared at that fucking black stone….and all I could think was," the words are tumbling from John fast now and his grip on Sherlock tightens, his hand clenching fistfuls of fabric.

"He'll never know now…fuck it all to hell _Sherlock_ will never know that I...how much I…_need_ him. How much _I love him_." John lets go then and moves his arm up to wrap around Sherlock's neck instead, shifting up to embrace him tightly.

Sherlock goes rigid as he feels the hot wetness of John's tears on his neck. It only takes a fraction of a second before he shatters completely, all his bravado and arrogance completely gone now, in a million fragments on the ground. His own tears streak down and he grabs onto John like a drowning man thrown a life preserver.

"_My_ John." Sherlock gasps, rubbing his cheek against the other man's desperately, needing any touch of skin on skin in that moment. He needs it like air, to ground him, to give him the strength that John has always given him.

"Always have been..." John whispers, and Sherlock can't breathe as he feels not only tears but the searing heat of John's mouth pressing soft desperate kisses against his throat.

Sherlock grabs onto a handful of sand colored hair and pulls the other man back a bit to stare at him. John's cheeks are damp, but those eyes burn into him. Finally they are stripped bare of all the lies and illusions they made for themselves from the beginning. Sherlock knows he will never forget this night as long as he lives, that he will always remember the light of the moon that glints off sapphire irises. He's always scoffed at love and sentiment, but this was far beyond any of that nonsense. His body so long denied now aches and cries out for the man in his arms, to take what may only be his for a short time now. But underneath that need is the whisper of his soul that reminds him that John is more than his friend, more than a lover, or a companion. He is the other half of the broken soul that is Sherlock Holmes.

It is only now, with all the barriers stripped away that they both can face the realization that their two fractured souls are only made whole when put together. Every jagged shard matches an opening on the other side and Sherlock lets out a strangled sigh as he leans in carefully.

"Sherlock, _please_." John gasps and tilts his head that last inch to bring their mouths together. It is soft at first as both fear the other will push away and break whatever spell has allowed them this honesty. But after a moment John groans into his mouth and presses harder, slanting his mouth to the side for better access. Sherlock fully embraces him, now able to feel the rapid rise and fall of those breaths he has been counting. John tastes like cinnamon and honey and Sherlock knows he will never be able to get enough. The passion is unbearable, so long denied and it flares to life like flames on a bonfire. Sherlock can't control his reaction as the feelings he has so long hidden and squelched threaten to rise up and consume him. John's tongue swipes across his lip and inward and Sherlock is burning up, the fire pooling in his stomach.

"Oh my god…oh…Christ _Sherlock_…" John breaks away with a gasp, but doesn't go far, his hands now coming up to rest against Sherlock's cheeks. He brings their foreheads together and tries to regain control.

"John…you_ cannot do this_."

John freezes. "I can't?"

Sherlock's eyes fly back open as he realizes what John thinks he means.

"Not _that_…you may, actually we must…" Sherlock kisses him again quickly but firmly, then once more before continuing. "…do _that _again, and as much as possible."

"Then what Sherlock, what is it I cannot do?" John laughs softly.

It is with a broken whisper that he answers.

"You cannot let it take you from me."

"Sherlock…"

But he doesn't speak again, instead moving to kiss away any and all words that could argue against what he has asked. He knows all the science, he has seen death, he knows that it waits for no one, but in this moment he prays to any deity who will listen that the one soul he cannot be without should be spared.

&*&(*&*(&(*&(*&(

The pace changes in the following days suddenly, as John begins to insist that Sherlock take cases, one after the other. John follows him across them all; though Sherlock no longer chases subjects and they spend a fortune more on cabs until Mycroft offers a car and driver to always be at their disposal. Sherlock for once does not fight his brother's generosity. Sherlock does not want to encourage John to do anything that could shorten the time they have left. John ignores the pained look that Lestrade tries to hide every time he lags behind a step, or has to stop to catch his breath.

John is tired more but sleeps less, staying up many nights tapping away on his laptop furiously. He won't allow Sherlock to read what he writes. Sherlock complies with his wishes for once, and merely plays the violin to accompany the clicking.

The cases continue, from murders to the mundane, they take them all. John always has loved 'the work', but never invested so much of himself in it before. Sherlock thinks he knows why. John wants to leave his mark, he s scared of being forgotten and hopes that if they help so many strangers that some may remember him in his absence. Sherlock wants to tell him that he will never let John's memory fade even a trifle, as he has memorized every last detail about his soldier.

The connection between them shifts as well. John now sleeps in Sherlock's bed when he cannot stay awake any longer. Sherlock lays beside him each time, sometimes sleeping but more often he is content to count and stare. After their night of confessions...they no longer hide their feelings from one another. John welcomes his touch now, contentedly snuggling against him when he sleeps.

It is Sherlock who now cries out in his sleep. Their roles have reversed as the consulting detective is now plagued with nightmares of his own. He dreams of the cemetery, bleak and cold, of the horrendous quiet that will be left in the flat, of the morgue. It is John who holds him now and wakes him with kisses and gentle touches. As the days turn into weeks John loses weight and the nightmares intensify until one night Sherlock wakes them both with his screams.

"Shhh…Sherlock. I'm here." John whispers near his ear, his rough palm smoothing sweat soaked curls from his love's forehead. Sherlock is gasping for air from the pain. He wonders if the doctors got it wrong after all, if he is the one dying not John.

"John…I can't." He rolls then and embraces the shorter man tightly. The dream is still with him and the ache so deep that it burns.

"It's okay. I'm still here…." John murmurs and those words are all it takes to finish him.

There has been nothing more than fevered kisses and holding since the night they stopped denying. But Sherlock is suddenly overcome by a wave of need, wanting something so badly he can't speak. He needs to cement this bond between them. His hold tightens and he dips his face to kiss John hard, desperately drinking in that honeyed taste.

John lets him and gives back as he instantly understands that Sherlock is trying to take him in now, draw all of him in deep that he won't be able to forget.

It is both slow and fast, both desperate and lovingly gentle Sherlock learns quickly and John teaches with his words, his hands, and his movement. It strips both of them down to their core, leaving nothing but Sherlock and John, two halves now finally made whole. In the end John collapses against Sherlock's pale chest and mouths soft kisses over where Sherlock's heartbeat races, rapid and strong.

"This is where I'll live. When I'm gone, it will be because I'll be in here." John whispers against Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock wants to tell him to stop, as the words cut at him like a razor.

"If mine won't keep me with you, then I'll be content to live inside yours."

Sherlock twists a hand in John's hair, holding him as John turns to listen to Sherlock's strong pulse. Sherlock finally finds his voice.

"You're already there. It's where you belong."

John fights it and it is another four weeks before the doctors faces turn more somber. Sherlock sees it all before they tell them. John's stopwatch is now picking up speed. John accepts the medication they give him and listens to talk of putting him on a transplant wait list, but they both know the odds aren't good. John refuses to be admitted to the hospital for any tests that require an overnight stay. He is afraid that if he checks in, they wont' let him back out.

When the physician ends the visit with a question about whether John has drafted a will, Sherlock flees the room with a curse. John finds him moments later down the hall, vomiting into a trash can.

&*&(*&()*(*&

The day John tells his family, Sherlock tries to kill Anderson.

Lestrade hears the commotion from his office and runs down the hall to find a crowd shouting at two men on the floor. One man is straddling the other, his hands around the other man's neck. Through the throng Greg gets a glimpse of a familiar black coat and let's out a bellowing order that disperses the onlookers, except for Donovan who stays to help pull the two men apart. She has the sense not to say a word as Greg grabs Sherlock about the waist and yanks him backward, allowing Donovan to scramble off with Anderson to tend to his wounded pride.

Sherlock grunts and struggles half heartedly but Greg can tell he is done. He wrestles him down to the street and into the back of a police vehicle. Sherlock is a mess, his curls wild and dark circles under his eyes. He complains loudly as Greg gets into the drivers' seat and starts the engine.

"If you're arresting me, we could have stayed upstairs…what is going on!"

"Shut up Sherlock, that's enough."

"You better not be taking me to Mycroft, I will end you!"

"No, that wasn't the idea. Stop shouting and tell me what happened Sherlock." Greg begins to guide the car away from NSY and onto the streets of London. The sun is setting and casts the city in a blanket of golden light.

"He provoked me."

"How'd he manage that?"

"He…" Sherlock is slightly manic, Greg can see it in his eyes in the mirror and he is haunted by a memory from many years ago, before the cases, before the blog and the hat, long before the fall, and before John Watson. He remembers this Sherlock…and it chills him.

"He said…he…" Sherlock's rage is ebbing slightly now, the adrenaline gradually seeping from his pores. "…he asked where John was…he…." Sherlock grits his teeth. "..he said that he never thought that John would last…."

Greg cringes, Anderson didn't know about John's illness, he hadn't had the heart to tell them yet. He doesn't want to defend the idiot's lack of tact, but considering Sherlock's rage he feels he at least needs to explain.

"Anderson is an idiot Sherlock, you know that. He's also a complete ass, but he didn't know. I've not told them."

"I wouldn't have killed him Lestrade if that's what you're worried about." Sherlock grumbles sagging against the seat now, the fight draining out of him as Greg drives, heading down a familiar route.

"I know that."

They don't speak for a few moments as Greg drives, wishing he had a better gift for this sort of thing. He doesn't know what to say that won't make it worse.

"Where are you taking me?" Sherlock asks finally.

"Home."

"Why?"

"Because I get it. But fighting with Anderson on the floor of the Yard won't buy John any more time."

Sherlock lets out a strangled noise that Greg never forgets. He risks a glance in the mirror to see Sherlock's head in his hands, his fingers pulling at his curls. Greg has seen grief so many times, but watching his friend go through this hurts him on a different level.

"I'm losing him, Greg." Sherlock's voice is broken.

"I know mate, I know."

&*&(&(&*(&(*(

Within another month or so John becomes unable to accompany him on cases, tiring too easily, struggling too much with the exertion. Sherlock refuses to take any cases that involve him leaving the flat. He doesn't leave John's side now, and doesn't argue when John refuses to go to the hospital anymore. Mycroft offers the help of a private physician to come to them, and Sherlock allows it as long as John agrees. The elderly man who visits gives John more pills to keep him comfortable, but it just a game of waiting now.

Gone are the late nights from the previous months, as John now tires from very little. Sherlock stops eating more than once every few days, that is until John catches him at it, fixing him with a look so pleading that Sherlock relents and chokes down a few mouthfuls of the dinner Mrs. Hudson had brought up that evening.

&*(&(*&(*&

One evening, just after Christmas, Sherlock composes in the evenings as the snow falls outside. Greg had been over earlier and built a cozy fire before leaving. John watches him from his favorite chair and smiles. He feels weak, and so tired. Even breathing has become exhausting. Sherlock's curls are slightly longer these days, as he can't bothered to cut them, they fall down almost into his eyes as he plays a haunting piece.

_God I love you, you mad beautiful genius._ John thinks as he stares, seeing Sherlock lose himself in the music, his eyes closed, brow furrowed.

_Take care of yourself love, please._

John lets his eyes drift close, lost in Sherlock's melody. The warmth from the fire lulls him gently, as does the falling snow outside.

John thinks to himself that he'd never envisioned such as life as the one he's led. From his uneventful childhood, to the sights of war, to the years he's spent with the man in front of him. He wonders what a life is really, but a measure of moments and comings and goings. Five years ago he would have been far more scared of death, despite being surrounded by it on the battle field. He would have thought that if had died then, it would have been a waste. But now, he thinks that at least he has accomplished one thing if nothing else.

He has loved more deeply than he ever thought possible, and for him…for John Watson it is enough.

"John?" Sherlock's bow halts on his instrument and he glances over to see John's head bowed to his chest. Anyone else would have assumed him asleep, but Sherlock's deductions don't allow him that illusion.

His sets his violin in the case, his hands trembling so much that he can barely close the case. He reaches for his mobile and quickly scrolls through to find a text that he composed weeks ago at John's insistence. He tries to breathe in but can barely fill his lungs as he hits send.

The mobile then clatters to the floor as he moves toward the still form of his love, his legs giving out as he reaches the chair. Now on his knees, Sherlock bows his head to rest his ear against John's chest, hoping that for once he is wrong. He listens, straining for anything to count now…breath, a heartbeat, anything. But all that answers him is silence and Sherlock chokes on sob as he grips fistfuls of John's soft jumper and lets himself bleed out.

&*&(*&*(&

Mycroft will never forget the scene that he finds when he and Gregory Lestrade arrive at 221B. Sherlock sits on the floor, his head in his hands, so still it scares Mycroft more than anything ever has. His younger brother has been so many things since his birth, but never so still. Mycroft casts a sorrowful glance toward where the paramedics tend to John's body and he hears the sound of Gregory trying not to cry behind him. Sherlock doesn't move, or acknowledge their presence in anyway.

He'd known when he got the text that it had been John's doing. It would have been John who insisted Sherlock alert them when the time came. He is thankful that his younger brother obeyed the man's dying request. He doesn't say a word, but moves to sit beside his brother on the floor. The paramedics take John and Gregory drops down on Sherlock's other side, reaching out a hand to lay it upon Sherlock's shoulder. Mycroft hears the gasping sound of Sherlock trying to breathe deeply, but unable to do so. His heart breaks for his sibling, and he sighs as he reaches over to pull his brother's face against his shoulder, surprised when Sherlock comes willingly all but collapsing against him.

&*&(*&(*&*(&*(&(*&(

It is Molly who comes and stays with Sherlock through the funeral, and for weeks afterward. She sleeps in Mrs. Hudson's guestroom downstairs but spends her days watching over Sherlock, who has become a shell in his grief. He allows her to tidy the apartment except for Mrs. Hudson attempts to shift John's chair to vacuum. This pushes him over the edge and he lets out a shout before running from the room to lock himself away in his room.

Molly makes sure he eats and sleeps, she asks nothing in return.

Asmall group do stand at his grave one afternoon for a memorial of sorts, Sherlock cannot bear it for more than a few moments. He runs from the cemetery as fast his legs will carry him, his black coat billowing behind him. No one follows him now, the only footsteps that he hears echoing in the darkening streets are his own.

**&*(&*(&(&(&*(&

Eventually Sherlock is persuaded to take a case by Lestrade, it has been 2 months and Molly urges him to go. He has been her shadow in the lab for a few days, as she had tugged him along in order to get out of the flat for a bit. The puzzle is a complicated one, involving an odd burglary. Despite his sadness, he lets the puzzle pieces loll about his mind brushing the dust off his deducing gears.

But when he solves it he doesn't smile. For all he hears is a faint echo inside his head.

_"Amazing."_

It is all he has left of John.

)(*()*)(*)*)(*())(*()*

Harry and Clara's daughter is born a few months later, all blond curls and dark blue eyes. They bring her around to visit, as Harry has felt the need to stay in touch with the man her brother left behind. Sherlock is quiet, watching as Harry cradles the infant, only a week old. He thinks that John would be proud of his sister, Sherlock reads her carefully and sees no sign that she has even thought of taking another drink. Motherhood seems to work for her and Sherlock is grateful that she is happy, as it would have pleased John.

Harry's mobile rings and she casually asks if Sherlock would hold the baby for a moment. Before he can protest, the soft pink bundle is laid in his arms. Molly is there still, perched on the arm of the sofa. She guides him how to support the baby's head with his arm and coos gently.

Sophie Grace Watson stares up at him with a pensive expression. Sherlock has never held an infant this small. He is stiff and uncomfortable but as he returns the baby's curious stare he sees a shade of blue he thought lost forever. He glances up at Molly to see if she notices

"They will probably change as she grows most babies do." Molly says gently.

To everyone's surprise, when Sophie begins to fuss quietly Sherlock doesn't rush to hand her back to Harry, instead moving up to cuddle the small girl against his chest. She snuggles against him and quiets. When he speaks it is so quiet only Molly and Sophie can hear.

"He would have adored you."


	2. You were Loved

_**AUTHORS NOTE: Wasn't going to include a note, but after reading the reviews I've received... I just want to say thank you! This little fic snuck into my head and just wouldn't let go. Thank you for all the kind words and I hope that you enjoy both parts of this. I may write a follow up at some point...as I still have some scenes in my head about Sophie growing up and what becomes of Sherlock and the gang. I love reading all the feedback, thank you again! ~Vix**_

Time passes and never more slowly than for Sherlock Holmes in the months following John's death. After the first case Lestrade drags him to, he slowly begins taking a few more here and there until he is getting close to his old routine. It still pains him at crime scenes and he never takes another assistant. The puzzles keep his mind busy although every time he solves one, he hears the echo of John Watson's epithets of praise in his ears.

_Brilliant. Amazing. Fantastic_. And even on occasion_…. Smart arse_. That last one makes him smile despite the pain, as does the mental voice teasing him about turning up his coat collar.

It is four months and 17 days when Mycroft leaves the stack of letters on Sherlock's coffee table. Molly is out at the morgue and Mrs. Hudson has gone shopping. Mycroft had chosen this timing carefully.

His visit had been brief, chatting about nonsense, and their parents upcoming anniversary party (which both brothers had tried desperately to avoid, neither had been successful). Mycroft pauses at the doorway as he slips on his overcoat. Sherlock is seated at the kitchen table, staring blankly into his microscope. The flat is cleaner than it used to be, thanks to Molly and Mrs. Hudson's care, but the kitchen is still littered with various experiments in progress. Normally Mycroft would have been disgusted by such things, but he is grateful that Sherlock is at least attempting to return to some semblance of his old routines after all this time.

Sherlock bids him good day without looking up. He hears the door shut a moment later and heaves a deep sigh and clicks off the light of the scope. He stretches his arms for a moment and it is then that his tired gaze alights on the one new item in the sitting area. A stack of folded papers, tied with a length of twine. He freezes for a second, then moves almost too quickly…stumbling over the edge of the rug in his attempt to reach the sofa. Without realizing it he is suddenly sitting on said sofa, clutching the papers with trembling hands.

He stares at the empty chair across the room, knowing exactly what these are. His heart kicks him mercilessly several times and he vaguely remembers John's breathless declaration of love from so long ago.

_"This is where I'll be." _

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment and concentrates on breathing, counting each inhale and exhale as he did for so many nights before. His heart calms down, but is still pounding a bit more forcefully than usual and he looks down at the letters in his hands. He can almost feel John's presence inside, as promised.

_Open them, Sherlock. It's time now._

Sherlock carefully unties the string and unfolds the top paper, smiling just a little to see the typed words down the page. The date is back toward the beginning of his diagnosis and Sherlock realizes that John was writing these far before he suspected. His heart kicks once more as he sees that John has hand signed the bottom of each page, with ink that looks suspiciously like Sherlock's favorite fountain pen.

&*(&*&&)(*&()&(*)&)&(&)(&

&*(&*&&)(*&()&(*)&)&(&)(&

_You've started watching me sleep Sherlock. You think I don't know, but I do. That's the things about us see…that's always been the thing about us. You may be able to deduce strangers from a stray hair, ketchup stain, or a Botox scar, and I may no nothing at all about any of that…but I know about you. I know quite a fucking bit about you. _

_I don't know how or why, but I know that you conjugate Latin verbs in the shower, I know that when you're on a case you don't sleep sometimes for days but that once you've solved it your mind finally relents and you sleep like the dead. I'm probably the only one besides maybe your brother that knows that while you profess to hate people and crowds, you secretly find them all intriguing. And I know that you while you love strawberry jam on your toast, you abhor grape._

_ Sometimes in between dreams I half wake and I know you're there. I can feel you watching me in that way of yours. I feel you waiting. I will confront you about it soon, but not just yet. I'll give you another couple days of it before I do. Our time is coming Sherlock, just know that. _

_.,.,_

The sound of Mrs. Hudson returning downstairs pull Sherlock from the words he has now read over 3 times. He quickly refolds the paper and slips back into his bedroom to hide the stack under his pillow like a child. It takes him 127 breaths before he feels ready to leave the room again.

&*(&*&&)(*&()&(*)&)&(&)(&

.

Sherlock reads the next letter that night in bed by flashlight. Even though he knows he is being ridiculous, and that Molly is sleeping at her own flat tonight and Mrs. Hudson has been snoozing for hours he still feels secretive and unbelievably possessive of these notes from John. He glances to the empty space beside him in the expanse of his bed that he is still unable to bring himself to cross. He remembers that first month after John's passing painfully, the image of himself clutching the other pillow through the night simply because it retained the other man's familiar scent. He takes a deep breath before opening the next missive.

_I always thought we had time for this. You and me. _

_ We never took the time to say all the things we should have. It hurts to know that we could have had a few years together of this if we'd only gotten over ourselves enough to face facts. I can almost hear your answer to that… Face what?_

_ Face the fact that we as people always have our fantasies and dreams about love. What it will look like, how and when it will come and that it will last forever. I have learned in my life Sherlock that only the last truth is the one that can be counted on. Love is a fickle fate and has deemed it fit that I, John Watson….who once was known as a skirt chaser (Shut up you, I was in Uni and all my mates egged me on)…. have finally found love. It did finally come to me, but in a way that I never would have expected, and I downright struggled and fought against it for so long that I robbed us of time we didn't realize was limited._

_ As for how love came, I always suspected it would be wrapped up in a pretty face, long legs, a short skirt, and a come hither smile. Instead love broadsided me wrapped in a flapping overcoat, ruffled curls and nicotine patches. I thought it would come and announce itself over dinner, maybe drinks one night after work. No…my love came with the case of a murdering cabbie, and it laughed happily as I chased it through the alleys and rooftops of London on the day we met. The third truth I do know now is the only one that has lived up to the fantasy. I may not be here to express it much longer Sherlock, but the love I feel inside for you I intend to take with me, forever._

Sherlock can't hold back his tears as he lets the paper fall from his fingers onto the duvet. He'd thought that he hadn't any left by this point to shed, but clearly was mistaken. He's never cried as much in his entire life as he has over the past few months, and the whole thing has made him feel so dreadfully human. But his solace is that he thinks that is what John would have wanted in the end to leave as a legacy…knowing that he had taken the most antisocial of creatures, tamed him, and taught him not only to laugh and to love, but also to cry.

&*(&*&&)(*&()&(*)&)&(&)(&

&*(&*&&)(*&()&(*)&)&(&)(&

_Harry's pregnant, Sherlock. I know you probably guessed it ages ago, but today was the day she told me. I'm almost certain you have gone to Molly's lab to brood and attempt to memorize the medical volumes she has there... You tried to deny it, but you can't lie to me. I let you think you can sometimes, but I can read your eyes now. _

_ It's all right that you tell her. You're going to need her, Sherlock. Molly is a touchstone for you. Her quiet timidity is the perfect foil for your brash overconfidence. I've always known that, from the day I met you, when I saw her bring you coffee and you immediately called out her change in makeup. She's been infatuated with you all this time too and the funny thing is, I'm not jealous. She helped you fake your death, she kept your secret for years, she never expected payment from you and she has always understood that your love for her may not have been the kind she fantasized but it keeps her tied to you still. Molly will be there when I cannot be, and I hope to God you let her in, if only because I can't bear the thought of leaving you alone._

The brightest spot in the detectives' days are the occasions when Harry drops by with Sophie. Everyone is shocked by the attachment that Sherlock forms with the baby girl. He has infinite patience with the baby, holding her with a surprising grace and babbling on about his latest cases or the castes found in honeybee populations.

Sophie is nearly three months the first time that Harry leaves her with Sherlock for a few moments so she can do her shopping in peace. Both Molly and Mrs. Hudson were around that afternoon and assured her that the baby would be fine. Harry did enjoy the time to herself, and returned within two hours time to find that Sophie had fallen asleep in Sherlock's arms. The flat is comfortably quiet; Molly is on the sofa with her nose buried in a novel. Sherlock sits in the stuffed chair that was John's; it is the one he prefers to use when holding Sophie.

Harry smiles to see her daughter snoozing peacefully, dressed in a different sleep suit than the one she'd arrived in, this one a soft lilac color. When she gently inquired as to the clothing change, Sherlock looked up from his smart phone, where he'd been reading case inquiries with his free hand.

"She dislikes pink."

"What?" Harry hears Molly chuckle from behind her book.

Sherlock dropped his eyes back to his phone as he answered casually. "She has a higher tendency to spit up on the pink outfits you bring. More so than any other color."

Harry is stunned for a moment until she hears Molly laugh once more and Harry notices that Sherlock is also wearing a different shirt than she left him.

"Did she… on you?" Harry begins to laugh, as Molly's giggles are contagious.

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes at both women, shifting Sophie a bit in his arms. The baby doesn't wake, completely content. He then looks back at Harry.

"She also dislikes me to wear white."

.,.,

&*(&*&&)(*&()&(*)&)&(&)(&

.,.,/,.,/.,

_I worry about you. I know that sounds ridiculous considering it's my bloody heart that keeps stuttering, but I worry about you constantly. Do you know that's what your brother told me the first time I met him? Well, the first time he kidnapped me in one of his unmarked cars, with a snooty assistant who couldn't be bothered enough to look up from her mobile the entire time. I know you profess hatred for your brother, but I've seen through that façade over time. But I'll get to Mycroft later on._

_I worry about you because I can see you slipping, your beautiful kind of genius has always bordered on obsessive and now unfortunately my stupid illness has given that brain something to chew on and obsess over, something that it cannot rationalize or think its way out of. I know you've spent hours memorizing the studies and scouring the web for information on this (yes, you're not the only one who knows how to hack into a laptop browser history)… but I've tried to tell you over and over now. You couldn't have stopped this, there was nothing you could have done to slow it down, fix it, or whatever notion you've got in your head._

_I told you that some things just __**are**__. As much as I hate it and as much as I'm scared …I don't like watching you chew it to pieces every day either. I know that it won't help to tell you to stop, but I say it anyway, and you turn those eyes on me every time. I can see it there you know, I can see your fury over this and I feel guilty. I know I shouldn't but since the moment I met you I assumed the role of your 'keeper' of sorts. You always seemed like such a wild glorious thing that I was content to just follow behind and bask in your glory. But our relationship has morphed and changed over the years, and through everything we've been through. At one time I saw the role of 'keeper' as more of a tempering force, to protect you and the world from each at your worst. Now it's different yet again, and the role has become more of a 'keeper of secrets' and I can only hope of hearts as well, for you have mine, Sherlock. You've always had mine._

.,.,

.,.,/,.,/.,

Greg wakes one night, when he reaches across the bed and finds cold sheets. He yawns and looks toward the window. Mycroft stands by the glass in the moonlight, wrapped in a dressing gown, his expression drawn as he stares over the dark street. Greg silently crawls from the bed and shuffles over to wrap tanned arms around Mycroft from behind, nuzzling his face in to the slight dent between the mans shoulder blades.

"Gregory." Mycroft murmurs, covering the DI's hands with his own as they fold over his stomach.

"He's getting better." Greg mumbles, knowing exactly what has his lover up in the middle of the night.

"Fractionally."

"It takes time."

"It's been months Gregory. Maybe I should have burned those notes rather than gifting them like I promised."

Greg stills behind him. "You don't really think that?"

Mycroft sighs. "No, perhaps not. But I still worry…sentiment is not something either of had much experience with and Sherlock has been drowning in it for some time now."

"I know you care, he's your brother. But John was more to him than any of us realized …losing him like that. I can't imagine." Greg's voice shakes a bit and his arms tighten around Mycroft.

"I didn't mean to upset you." Mycroft murmurs, letting Gregory tug him back toward the bed.

"You didn't."

Mycroft lies back against the pile of pillows, and turns on his side to face Gregory. He'd always abhorred sentiment, prided himself on not getting involved, and generally viewed the rest of the human race as something to be studied or pitied. But Gregory Lestrade had somehow broken through all of his barriers and rules about people. He'd never quite understood the connection between John and Sherlock, how it had been so immediate and so deep even without words.

Then Gregory happened. And Mycroft understood more than he cared to. It had happened suddenly, that day at the flat when John had told them about his illness. Mycroft had been appalled by the ripple of attraction he'd felt toward the silver haired man, even when Greg had resorted to vulgar language and behavior that mirrored some of Sherlock's tantrums. He'd tried to squelch the electric buzz that hummed through him as he'd watched the man pace the flat in upset.

But then, they'd left the flat. And there on the sidewalk….Gregory had suddenly shattered. Mycroft could think of no other term to describe the look on the man's face as his expression crumpled. It had twanged a nerve deep inside the iceman and he'd been shocked but hadn't protested when the D.I. had suddenly turned and grabbed onto his coat front, bending his head to hide the tears that dripped down onto the concrete.

"I can hear you thinking Myc." Greg mumbles, even though his back is turned.

Mycroft grimaces but scoots closer to pull the man close to his chest, curling around him, and holding tightly. "You know I hate that nickname."

"All the more reason to use it." Greg laughs softly into his pillow, but then Mycroft feel him still as he thinks as well.

Both are quiet for a moment before Greg speaks again.

"I know you worry about him, but you must realize that he may never be the same after all this, at least not completely."

"Ludicrous." Mycroft yawns, and leans down to nuzzle the scent at the back of Greg's neck.

"No it's not, love. He'll heal somewhat, but a loss like that…it changes people."

Mycroft doesn't answer, merely hugs Gregory tighter to him. He understands now that may be the truth of it, as he Mycroft Holmes, the man who always prided himself on detachment…now cannot fathom a world without Gregory Lestrade.

.,.,

&*(&*&&)(*&()&(*)&)&(&)(&

.,.,/,.,/.,

_ Today was bit hard. Telling Mycroft and Greg was not something I was looking forward to. I expected your brother to be rather quiet and stoic over the whole thing, since he's got an even tighter lock on his emotions than you do… but Greg. I didn't' quite expect him to have that big a reaction. Although when I think about it, maybe I should have known. Greg's become a good friend over the last few years, and he's one of the few other blokes on this earth that knows you like I do, that sees underneath that mask you wear. One thing I want you to remember, Sherlock. Greg and Mycroft are two people that care for you a great deal, and they will be the pillars to keep you up if you stumble over this._

_ Greg will risk anything, he's already proven that to you. He has risked his career, his reputation, his safety to help you fight the worlds' demons. He is your ally in everything, even when he doesn't follow your mind in its brilliant leaps. He trusts you on a deep level and despite the fact that you'll never admit it, and you manage to always get his first name wrong, you know this about him. It is what keeps you coming back for cases instead of finding your own._

_ Mycroft ….what can I say about the two of you? You most likely won't listen to anything I want to tell you about your brother but I'm going to try. Mycroft is cold and calculating, his brain is as scary as yours, maybe even more so, but he does have a weakness Sherlock, and no it's not cake or sweets as you like to tease him so about. _

_You are his weakness Sherlock. The two of you may never be honest about it, and you may bicker and fight until the end of time trying to have the last word …but your brother would turn the world on a dime to help you if you ever asked. Perhaps that's why you don't, you know this but it would kill you both to face it. There is a loyalty there, no matter how buried and convoluted. I am going to have you draft a text to him for down the road, when my time comes. You are going to fight me on it; I know you are….but you are going to need Mycroft to be there. And he will come when you call, just as I have always done. _

_You watch me sleeping now every night. And I finally convinced you to at least lie with me while you do it. It was for selfish reasons I'll admit that. I like having you close, knowing you're there beside me at the end of my reach. That was how it started at first with you and I. We were both so alone and with each other that faded off. I remember when I first came home and rented that god awful empty room, I barely spoke to anyone other than my therapist and just couldn't shake the fact that I had no place to belong anymore. It was as if I had come back to a world that didn't want or need me anymore._

_ But with you, it was different. From the moment I heard you start spitting out deductions about my blasted mobile phone. I was pissed off and enthralled at the same time. And despite the fact that it was ludicrous, when you offered up that flat in the next breath I suddenly wanted it. I looked you up that night to make sure I wasn't about to move in with a psychopath. Oh no, much better than that. A high functioning sociopath as you claimed. But one that offered up the two things I desperately needed: a home (albeit one filled with clutter and science equipment), and adventure. The first day, following you through that crime scene, to Angelo's, and even chasing you through the streets of London….it was glorious. I hadn't known I could have that again, or that they could both exist together, home and danger. But you managed to personify both, and I loved you for it, more than you'll ever understand._

_ You invited me to walk by your side through the danger, although more often than not I end up chasing you through it. You wanted me there, beyond reason or sensibility some days (breaking up bad dates, interrupting my work or sleep)…and you needed me as well. You needed me to keep you from succumbing to your own desire to prove your own brilliance even if it cost you your safety…you needed me to make sure you ate and slept at regular intervals, and you needed me to be the grounding rod to your lightning flash. Want and Need. Those two things that had been so painfully absent from my life, there they were…just not in the form I'd expected._

_ And I wouldn't have it any other way, Sherlock._

.,.,

&*(&*&&)(*&()&(*)&)&(&)(&

.,.,/,.,/.,

Summer comes to London and with it a new serial killer that finally sparks Sherlock's interest fully. This is the first major case he has taken this year, sticking to burglaries or single murders in the past few months. Lestrade is thrilled when Sherlock comes to the crime scene without any bribing or begging. Greg watches as Sherlock takes in every detail, gradually becoming more absorbed in the puzzle. He comes alone now, so he uses Greg to bounce ideas off of and he tries his best to be the springboard for Sherlock's deductions like he did long ago…before John Watson.

They are going over some paperwork on the case, evidence photos and profiling the next afternoon when Greg brings up an as yet undiscussed topic.

"How are you doing Sherlock?"

The consulting detective doesn't glance up from the file in his hands. "I'm almost done."

"No, I don't mean with that…I mean in general."

Sherlock flips another page. "Did my brother put you up to asking that?"

"No."

Sherlock closes the file and looks up at Greg with a knowing smirk. "You don't lie well Lestrade."

Greg huffs and rakes a hand through his hair. "He worries a lot yeah, but he didn't tell me to talk to you or anything."

"I see."

There is a long silence before Greg finally asks the question.

"Did you read them yet?"

Sherlock stiffens and his eyes flash. "Some, yes."

"It's none of my business of course…"

"You are correct, it's not."

Greg looks up with a sober expression. "I didn't mean it like that….I just, what I meant to say was that …I hope it gives you some peace, Sherlock."

Sherlock's irritated expression morphs into one of genuine confusion and both drop their gazes down to the desk. Sherlock fidgets uncomfortably. Emotion, the thing that he had once kept at a distance at all times…is now a constant in his life. He is still shocked that even as time continues to pass, that little things can set off the storm inside at any given moment. He wonders if he will ever truly heal.

Sherlock clenches his fists against the onslaught inside and closes his eyes for a moment, resorting back to his counting mechanism. It takes 24 breaths until he feels calm enough to respond.

"Peace has never been a strong suit of mine."

.,.,

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_It finally happened. _

_ I'm not good at expressing my feelings aloud, especially not to the people that matter most to me. It's a curse I suppose, but I am better writing things…I suppose that's why I assumed the role of your blogger. It was the easiest way for me to convey all my admiration for you and your mad brilliance, other than the occasional slip of verbal praise._

_ But last night Sherlock, god last night I managed to get it out to you. I've known I needed to tell you for so long. From the day the doctor gave me my diagnosis, I've been trying to build up the courage. I was frightened that you wouldn't be ready to hear it, that you might be still too angry with me for doing something so mundane as dying. But you proved me wrong last night. _

_ My stupid night terrors struck again, only these days there are a different sort. I dream about dying, about blackness and a never ending sleep…worst of all I dream of not being with you and it hurts. It hurts like nothing I've ever known. I'd gladly take a hundred more bullets than to have to do this, to have to leave. The only solace was waking to your arms around me, holding me so damn tight. I've waited so long for that Sherlock. Even before I understood what it was I was waiting on, I knew in that moment that I'd found it. Your touch filled in that final gap, love. Suddenly instead of terror, all I could feel was complete._

_ I finally asked you what had plagued me for the time you were gone, and even tried to get out the one question I knew was suffocating us both. My voice failed me on the second one, but you heard it anyway, of course you knew. I will forever remember your answer Sherlock. I will take that sentence with me in to the unknown that waits for me. "Above and beyond any form of measure"._

_ That sentiment is the most perfect definition of so many things concerning you and I. My loyalty to you, your brilliance, the depth of your soul, and most of all...how much I adore you. Those magic words of yours served as the key to unlock the barriers we'd put up around each other over the years. It no longer matters what people think, how they will talk, or the fact that we were both idiots not to recognize this sooner. _

_ The irony is that last night Sherlock, finally touching you, kissing you….I have never felt more alive. For you I would move heaven and earth if it were in my power. I didn't have the strength to tell you that this one thing is beyond me. _

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_ This is killing me Sherlock. It's is literally killing me and I can feel it every time I see you feel that urge to break into a run and I see you falter, waiting for me. I hate to see you temper yourself like that, as much as I love you for why you do it. It makes feel sick inside when I see you look back for me, knowing I can't follow you. It hurts because that is how I feel about you now. I have always been the one behind the wings of your coat as you fly through the city. Now you will have to stay back as I move on, I will have to be the one to look over my shoulder and wish I could wait for you._

.,.,

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These last two letters, one long and one short leave Sherlock gasping for air in the middle of a warm August night. The papers fall on the duvet as he pulls his knees up and tries to calm his breathing. His chest aches and throbs, the pain still hot and raw slicing up through him. He wonders if this is how it feels to drown. This slow suffocation until your lungs give out. It is a wonder he can breathe at all.

"I can't do this." Sherlock whispers into the silence, and then closes his eyes to retreat to his mind palace. He runs through the dark hallways of the imagined building, racing breathlessly for the only room with light coming from under the door. In this room sun shines golden through windows to illuminate the face that he misses so much. It is here where Sherlock can throw himself into his beloved's arms again.

"You can do anything." John's voice in his mind consoles, holding Sherlock tightly as he did those nights before.

"Not this…this is killing me."

"You managed just find for a lifetime before we met."

"That was different."

"How so?"

"I didn't know what I was missing then."

John's memory cannot respond of course, and Sherlock knows underneath it all that it just a manifestation of his own grief but he still clings to the image for dear life, trying to take comfort in the embrace.

Molly finds him like that in the morning, curling on his side with his arms wrapped around himself. She sees the letters strewn over the bedcovers. She doesn't have the heart to rouse him.

.,.,

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_ You wonder what I'm writing as I stay up with you these nights. I have banned you from reading it as I know you're not ready. You won't be ready until long after I'm gone I'm guessing. Just like I couldn't bring myself to go back to 221B after you fell, I couldn't even make myself phone Mrs. Hudson even though I knew it was wrong and selfish. Any thing that reminded me of you just hurt too much inside that I avoided it all; just as I am sure you will avoid these letters when I am gone. I will give them to Mycroft and Greg….who as I'm sure you've deduced by know are seeing each other. Greg confided in me a few weeks ago that they had developed a 'something' between them in the last few months. He couldn't bring himself to name it yet, but I understood completely. He talks about Mycroft now the way I talk about you. He calls him a git, a power hungry know it all, and various other names that do little to hide the smile in his voice when he says his name. I'm surprised but both of them deserve to be happy, and if they have found a fraction of the kind of love I have for you …then I hope to God's they have more sense than we did and grab onto it now with both hands, never to let it go._

_ I write these letters in the hope that they will bring you comfort in the days that will follow. And I also write them in the vain hope that you will keep them so that a piece of me will go one after I am gone. That's why I'm writing the book too, and forcing you to keep taking so many cases. You can tell, of course, you always can tell. I want to leave a piece of immortality behind if I can. _

_ We've switched places now you and I. You cry in your sleep, and I'm the one that reaches to calm you in the dark. I know now what it must have felt like that night for you to hold me as I screamed. It hurts more because I know the cause of it ….and you've called my name in such a broken voice. _

_I wish I had a better gift for words Sherlock. I hold you and try to convey though touch just how much you mean to me. Making love with you is like the most painful bliss. I've never been happier and so sad all at once…for I don't want to go even more now. I want to take you with me, I want to stay with you, there's so much I want that I can't have Sherlock, and it all has to do with you. How can one person complete another so much? I never knew it possible. I pray that you'll keep this part of me with you always, for I know that I will take all of you that I can with me wherever I go from here._

.,.,

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October comes in with a thunderstorm and the rainy night finds Molly and Sherlock in the flat, sharing a comfortable silence as Sherlock works across two laptops doing research for a current case. Molly sits on the sofa, a sketchbook propped up on her knees, her pencil case open nearby on the coffee table. Sherlock glances over once in awhile and smiles a little to himself. He has grown quite used to Molly's quiet company. He has learned more about her in the last year than he was aware existed.

He has learned her hobbies, drawing and painting, as well as her guilty pleasures: chocolate and trashy paperback novels. He has learned how she takes her tea and that it is always her left shoelace that comes undone first. But what he likes best about his. She is quiet and accepting of his presence alone, she knows that she can never fill the void that John left behind in 221B and she doesn't attempt to try. Instead she has carved out a new space in Sherlock's life for herself, and both are content as to how she fits there.

It is that night that Sherlock emails Mycroft about perhaps helping him see about getting 221C renovated in time for Christmas.

.,.,

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_It's coming on faster now, and I am scared._

_I don't' tell you that. I can't bear to see the beautiful light in your eyes flicker, and that is what happens when I talk about it. You don't say a word, but I see what you think you're hiding. You think I don't know about what you did to Anderson at the yard last week. _

_Greg wasn't going to tell me, but I cornered him and forced it out. As if I could let it go that you'd limped back into the flat with blood shot eyes and the pocket of your jacket ripped. You think the details are lost on me, but not yours Sherlock. I've memorized everything about you. _

_ Greg did the right thing just bringing you back to me though. Throttling Anderson isn't going to stop it love. It's going to happen. And I hate to say it…but I feel it to be soon._

.,.,

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This Christmas is much different than the previous one.

Sherlock is surrounded by people in 221B, at Mrs. Hudson and Molly's urging. Spirits are had and gifts passed around. Sherlock is quiet through most of it, happy to sit in John's old chair with Sophie on his lap. Harry and Clara had made an appearance earlier in the evening, but then excused themselves to attend a party for Clara's employer; leaving Sophie in the care of her favorite babysitter.

Greg refills his wine glass and smiles slightly as he hears the sound of Sherlock gently trying to explain the spherical geometry of Sophie's ball to her. He looks over just in time to see Sophie squeal happily and lob the ball straight towards Mycroft, hitting him on the back. Sherlock's laughter is deep and the sound makes nearly everyone in the room grin.

Later after the guests have departed and Mrs. Hudson has retired for the night, Molly cleans up the kitchen a bit then steps back into the living room to find both Sherlock and Sophie sound asleep. Sherlock is reclined on the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front, with Sophie cuddled in his arms, her head on his shoulder. Molly smiles and looks around for Sophie's bag. She spies it in a corner, but when she opens it she does not find pajamas and her mind whirrs unpleasantly as she looks up at the clock.

It is nearly midnight. Harry and Clara had not made a mention of them watching Sophie overnight. Not wanting to wake the pair, she steps out into the stairwell and dials Harry's mobile. There is no answer.

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_ By the time you get to these last letters…I'm guessing some time will have passed. And with that said, there are 3 things I want you do for me. _

_Look after my niece if you can. I ask this because you know that my relationship with Harry has never been easy, but I do want the best for my sister. She hasn't had an easy go of things, but seeing her now, so close to being a mother…I do want for her to be happy. And I want nothing more than for that baby girl to be cared for and loved. Clara and Harry may make it, they may not. But please if you can, if they let you…look in on that baby girl once in a while for me. _

_Let Molly In. She will be the one who comes to help you. I've already made sure of that. She would have come whether or not I asked of course, Molly loves you Sherlock. Purely and forever, whether or not you ever return it….she will. You may never return her feelings, but at least let her in. Let her be in your life however she fits love. I don't want you to be alone, and she has waited so long._

_Don't stop taking cases. Hear me out. I know it will be awhile before you let Lestrade drag you to a crime scene. But once you get back into it, I want you to continue doing what you love, solving cases. I can face whatever lies beyond for me if I know that somewhere back there ….the man I love is doing what he does best. Being the Great Sherlock Holmes, and helping those that ask for it._

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It is March and unseasonably warm. Sherlock stares at the white marble stone and thinks how different his life is now than he had thought one year ago. He remembers that memorial last year, and how he had run then, not being able to bear the cemetery more than a few moments.

He'd thought then that a year later would find him still so alone.

That is not the case.

"Sophie, that particular flower is not edible." Sherlock murmurs, plucking the daisy from her small hand before it can reach her mouth. He pulls her back from the edge of the blanket, settling her fishbowl toy in front of her instead. The set of rubber goldfish to count had been a present from Mycroft at Christmas.

Sophie gives him a long suffering look before giving in and tipping the bowl to spill the fish out for her to grab. Sherlock smiles at her antics then turns back to look at the marble headstone behind him.

He has seen people talk to their lost loved ones in cemeteries before. He remembers seeing John's heartfelt speech to his own headstone so long ago and it reminds him of the ache in his chest that is less these days, but never truly gone.

He thinks about telling John about Christmas night when Harry and Clara proceeded to have a rather noisy row down on the street at 2 in the morning. The night had ended with Clara stepping in, her makeup smudged from crying as she quietly asked Molly if they would mind keeping Sophie for the rest of the weekend. Sherlock had watched from the upper landing and it had taken him only a moment to deduce what had happened. The alcohol at the party had been flowing and too much a temptation for John's sister, who'd been overworked and exhausted lately trying to juggle returning to her career and raising their precocious daughter.

Sherlock wants to tell John everything but he knows that John wouldn't be happy to hear that Harry's relapse was not short lived and that Clara had set down an ultimatum only two weeks later. Sophie's time in 221B was becoming more and more frequent as her parents struggled to find a way out of their paradox. There was now talk of Harry perhaps needing to attend rehab once more, only this time for a more extended stay.

Sherlock wanted to tell John that he and Molly had already discussed redecorating John's old room into a nursery for his niece as both Mycroft and Sherlock had come to the joint conclusion that Sophie would most likely be a permanent resident if things didn't work out soon.

He wants to say all of this but finds the words stuck in his throat as he stares at the carved letters in the stone. He knows that John knows all of this anyway and perhaps it is better to say nothing at all.

He looks over at Sophie who is now contentedly spreading her toys over the blanket and pointing to each making noises that sound like she is imitating counting them. She has only said a few words thus far, her first birthday being a month from now. Sherlock is surprised by her development on a daily basis. He pulls a piece of paper from his coat pocket and unfolds the last letter from John.

_ My time is out. It hurts to breathe anymore, and I'm so tired. I've fought as long as I could to stay, but it's waiting for me now Sherlock, and calling me. I can't hold out much longer. I watch your face as you sleep, and whisper things that I can never say while you're awake. I tell you how much I will miss you, how much it hurts to leave, and how I'm sure that a love as wonderful as ours cannot be stopped by such a foolish thing as death. I tell you that I'll wait for you on the other side Sherlock, that I'll never be more than a breath away. That I love you with all of my soul, and that if I live a thousand lives, I will look for you in every single one._

_There is one last thing Sherlock…._

_Please. Don't. Forget._

_ Never forget that if nothing else ever comes of any of this….._

_ You have been, and always will be loved._

.,.,

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"John…." Sherlock feels his eyes burn and blinks rapidly as he gently refolds the paper. His chest constricts a bit and he reaches a pale hand out to trace his fingers over each letter of that name, and then presses his palm to the cold smooth stone.

He is saved from the wave of emotion as Sophie tosses one of her fish at him. He catches it in his other hand without looking and Sophie laughs. She crawls over to him happily and uses her grip on his coat to pull herself to her feet. She wobbles unsteadily and Sherlock watches as she holds onto his arm and toddles toward John's headstone, holding onto his outstretched arm.

"John." Sophie says with near perfect clarity, and Sherlock blinks in surprise.

"Say that again." Sherlock urges.

Sophie claps her hands, loving the attention. "John, John!" She releases Sherlock's arm and promptly falls back on her behind with a giggle. He grabs her up in his arms and holds her tightly for a moment before she squirms to be let down. Sherlock places a kiss against the blond curls which are starting to darken now to a sandy gold.

He lets her return to her fish game and looks back at John's stone once more. He stills feels the loss inside, and knows now that he will always carry that with him. He looks forward to the day when he will see his love again, but for now he is content to wait. He turns his gaze back toward Sophie. He'd thought that losing John would mean that he'd be alone for the rest of his days.

For once Sherlock Holmes is glad to have been proven wrong.


	3. Epilogue: Dreams

_**AUTHORS NOTE:**_

_**This little scene just kinda nagged me until I wrote it out. Set a few months after the end of Chapter 2. Thank you for all the hits, reviews, follows!**_

_**To all those who fave/follow and don't leave reviews... please comment! I love reading the feedback!**_

Molly doesn't even think as she slides out of bed and pulls on a sweater over her pajamas. She quickly makes her way up the flights of stairs toward the sound of Sophie's wailing. As her socked foot hits the top step she hears the low baritone of Sherlock attempting to comfort the child.

"Sophie Grace Watson, this is completely uncalled for." His words sound commanding but the soft wavering way in which they are delivered is anything but. Molly pauses for a moment to listen.

"You were sleeping peacefully for hours before this, your nappy is dry, there is no reason for you to be this upset." Sherlock consoles, but Sophie's cries are still at a deafening volume and Molly cannot resist any longer. Quietly she steps into the doorway of the room that was slowly being converted into a room for the toddler.

Sherlock stands by the window holding Sophie as he attempts to calm her. Molly slowly makes her way toward where the pair is locked in a noisy stalemate. She says nothing, knowing that Sherlock most likely either heard or anticipated her coming. He looks over his shoulder as she approaches and a flicker of relief dances over his features as he sees her.

"She is inconsolable…although I have no idea why." He murmurs, changing his hold to cradle the child against his shoulder so she can see Molly behind them. Sophie's face is flushed from crying and tear streaked, but when she opens an eye to see Molly she changes the pitch of the sound.

"Now now lil miss….what's the trouble?" Molly coos, reaching up to run her hand over the sandy blond curls. Sophie wails again and reaches an arm over Sherlock's shoulder, grasping for Molly.

Sherlock sighs and turns to hand the baby over. Molly takes her and cuddles her close, rubbing her back over the fuzzy sleeper. "It's all right lil miss. You'll wake half the city if you don't settle." Molly turns to walk slowly as she coos softly toward the angry little girl. Sophie's wails lessen slightly in volume, but do not stop and Sherlock sags his lanky frame into the rocking chair in the corner. Mrs. Hudson had supplied it as Sophie had been spending more and more nights in 221B and apparently had worse sleeping habits than Sherlock.

"You don't think….she's not getting ill?" Sherlock's voice cracks slightly at the end of the question and Molly stops her pacing for a moment. She looks over to see Sherlock sprawled bonelessly in the rocker, his long legs stretched out in front of him, but his brow furrowed in concern. She shifts Sophie to her other shoulder.

"No, perhaps she just had a bad dream. That's hard for them at this age."

Sherlock thinks on that for a moment.

"Perhaps, I can imagine it must frustrating as well to not be able to express your panic to those around you."

Molly chuckles at his explanation, but Sophie turns then to see the source of Molly's attention and let's out an angry squeal that makes them both flinch slightly.

"Hey now, what was that for?" Molly asks.

Sophie squirms in her arms now, reaching both arms towards Sherlock and squeezing out fresh tears. Sherlock's expression shifts from exhaustion to pleasure, and back to concern as Molly moves to hand the child back to him. As Sophie is passed from one set of arms to the other, she grabs a handful of Molly's sweater and refuses to let go. Sherlock is leaned forward in the rocker and tuts gently toward the child.

"It is nearly 2 am Miss Watson, kindly make up your mind."

Sophie does not relent and her anguish twists Molly's heart. She can see that Sherlock is tired, which he so seldom shows and she sees only one way out of their current dilemma.

"Here, sit back." She says to Sherlock and lowers herself into his lap in the rocker. It is slightly awkward as Sherlock tenses up until he realizes Molly's intention. Molly is glad that the room is dark except for the moon so that her flush at being this close may be less noticeable. She finally finds a comfortable arrangement, with her legs over the side of the rocker and Sophie settled between them both. It is not perfect, as Sherlock's lap is not the most comfortable, all bony angles, and Sophie is a noisy weight between for another moment or two. Molly tries to ignore the closeness and the awkward position as she watches Sophie begin to calm down.

Sherlock is silent as the two of them resign to their arrangement, both willing to do anything for the small child. Sophie has quickly taken over the lives of all the adults in 221B, as if she has always known that this is her home regardless of her parentage. Molly thinks that it is only fair of fate to have worked things out as such.

She remembers the events of the past two years and thinks that if it had not been for Sophie that John's death would have consumed Sherlock. She remembers the nights just after when she and Greg had taken cabs to the cemetery to collect the shell of man after her had cried himself to sleep atop John's grave. The memory rattles in her chest uncomfortably and she tries to shake it as she looks down to see that Sophie has finally ceased her crying.

"There now love." Molly murmurs gently, and shifts slightly as she yawns. She feels a slight movement and realizes that Sherlock has used his foot to gently rock the chair. She feels him shift a little, draping one arm around behind her so that she can lean against him more comfortably. Molly tries not to think anything of it. She has long given up on her ridiculous crush from before. Her girlish infatuation with the man has slowly morphed over the year into something deeper and more satisfying than the fantasies she used to indulge in. Living in 221B, helping Sherlock through the hardest year of his life thus far has taught her so much. She closes her eyes as Sophie's raspy little hiccups begin to even out and quiet further.

"Demanding little being." Sherlock whispers fondly, shifting slightly again. This time he lifts his hand to guide Molly's head back to rest against his shoulder. She is tired and allows it even though it is a foreign gesture. He smells like spice and sandalwood and she relaxes a little more, not missing the fact that his hand has not left the back of her neck, now comfortably resting atop her messy hair.

Minutes pass by as Sherlock slowly rocks the three of them. Sophie finally succumbs to sleep, her head resting against Sherlock's pajama clad chest, her tiny fist still curled around the edge of Molly's cardigan. Molly wants to open her eyes, knows that she should get up and place Sophie in her crib, but she is tired and scared that if she moves Sophie will wake. She tells herself that she will get up in a few moments, and doesn't open her eyes just yet.

Sherlock feels the moment when Molly drifts off. He ceases the rocking motion slowly, listening for any hint of Sophie waking. Both girls are now asleep, their weight warm and comforting, and he leans his head back against the chair, gazing toward the where he can see the moon through the window. In his head he hears John's voice echoing.

_You're doing wonderfully, Sherlock._

_I don't know what I'm doing, John._

_You're doing fine._

_I still miss you. I never stop._

_I know._

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, and strokes his fingers across Molly's tangles. Sophie makes a small noise in her sleep and snuggles against him. He smiles for a moment and thinks John would be proud of him.

He is surviving.


	4. Question regarding update

So… there is something scurrying around in my head for this story. It appears that these characters aren't quite done yet with their story, even when I think they are. I have gotten a lot of alerts on this story and I am loving the reviews. Do you think the story should be left as it is, or would you want to read another chapter?


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